Tea, Earl Grey, Hot
by jomiddlemarch
Summary: How Christopher Foyle takes his tea. Inspired by a Tumblr discussion of the same,


He hadn't pegged Milly for a shrieker, but it couldn't be said he knew Andrew's wife very well. Perhaps if his mother had lived or if there hadn't been another war, one for each of them, Andrew would have chosen to spend more time with his father, enough time so that his wife's behavior would have become familiar, that his father would have known whether she really preferred the sherry she always took when offered. He didn't invite them to his flat often; it had little to recommend it and so he tended to meet them for tea from time to time at an hotel or stood them an expensive meal at one of the new restaurants that couldn't compete with his memory of Carlo's. They reciprocated and he'd been to his son's home hardly more than half a dozen times since he'd married three years ago. Milly seemed like a nice enough young woman, well-bred and attractive in a mildly Italianate way, but she wouldn't have caught Foyle's eye in a crowd and he wondered sometimes why Andrew had chosen her. There was no hint of a grandchild and he hated to be a cliché to his son, more than he already was with his fishing and puttering about reading about chess, so he never asked; Sam Wainwright seemed to be taking care of that category, albeit he was cast as a kindly godfather to her two curious boys and the next one necessitating the maternity smocks she hadn't hesitated to bemoan to him as even less flattering than her uniform "but at least I needn't wear my hair in that Victory roll any longer or that cap! Christopher, I can't tell you how I battled with that cap!" He was comfortable at the Wainwright house, even though there was usually a toy underfoot, a book splayed open to break its spine on the coffee table, a cramped house always in need of a good dusting and possibly the closest thing he had to a home these days. He was trying though, trying with Andrew and Milly, as Sam had gently, obliquely suggested he be, and so he'd agreed when his daughter-in-law asked to make the tea in the kitchenette. And now, Milly was making a sound closer to a shriek than a screech; he didn't think it could be mice.

He and Andrew hurried into the small kitchen and found Milly with a drawer open and a hand on her open mouth. He supposed it was stopping the noise, so he was slightly reluctant to ask her what was bothering her but he was a detective.

"What's the matter, m'dear?"

"That—what's that… thing? It looks like a hedgehog's died in the drawer!" Milly took her manicured hand from her mouth and pointed at a furry, woolly, unevenly brown bundle. Andrew, made of sterner stuff, simply peered at it but Foyle sensed his son would have liked a stick to poke the alleged hedgehog with.

"You must admit, Dad, it looks rather…off. Not quite sure it's a hedgehog, though," Andrew said, more puzzled than disgusted as Milly had sounded. There was a pub not too far that had a decent bitter and the owner's wife's interpretation of a Cornish pasty was passable if the pastry was a bit sturdy—it didn't seem likely any of them would want to actually finish making the tea here, even after he explained.

"It's a tea-cosy, Andrew. Sam, Mrs. Wainwright made it for me when she was learning to knit. She had some… difficulties at first. That was one of her earlier attempts. Expect it'll come in handy some time," he replied. He hadn't had the heart to tell Sam he'd never used a tea-cosy, just as he always suffered silently through the nearly stewed cups she served him. She was his friend, not his wife, so there was no reason to tell all the truth.

Andrew gave him a glance then that reminded him of Rosalind, fondly humorous disbelief and the an acknowledgement that nothing more would be said.

"Milly, sorry you were startled. Does have a look of Mrs. Tiggy-winkle about it. Andrew was quite taken with her when he was small, did you know that?" Christopher said, watching his son's wife for the expected smile. This must be one she saved for Andrew—it lit up her whole face and her dark eyes were gleeful.

"Dad!"

"Well, you were, Andrew. Your mother had an awful time convincing you to leave your stuffed hedgehog at home on the first day of school. Mind, you were only six," he replied.

"Enough! Aren't you meant to find us some tea—we could go to that pub round the corner," Andrew said, tying up all the loose ends as his father had hoped. And Sam, who'd made great strides in her knitting, would be delighted with the story when he called round next. She considered her domestic life a trial, she'd told him that repeatedly and with great vigor, so she wouldn't be insulted and he looked forward to the grin she'd give him. The tea-cosy had come in handy, indeed.


End file.
